


Radio

by DungeonInspector



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bad Ending, Gen, Inspired by Dreams, Psychological Horror, Short One Shot, Supernatural Elements, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DungeonInspector/pseuds/DungeonInspector
Summary: A DJ hears the voice of a dead serial killer over the airwaves and must find the body of one of his victims.This story was part of a challenge to write the best ending for a particular dream within 3h.Time: 2h 42min.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Instructions by BiskyChama: teh mc is a nighttime dj living a seedy life that gets a call from teh murderer who is already dead. teh call is a recorded message giving clues to where to find the body and the dj wants to redeem himself from his shit life by finding her also coconut water is amazing

Dead men tell the worst tales because the darkest secrets dwell within their graves.

With a blackened eye from his ex-boyfriend's fist, the DJ's face rippled with pain. Mouth dropped slightly open and good eye wide, he listened to the voice of Jeremy Witcher. Date of death: January 31st, 2017 at approximately 2 am.

It was a date the DJ knew down to the second. He'd never forget the crackle of the static as the serial killer had whispered in his ear through his headphones nor the ear bleeding ring of a gunshot from the other end of the line.

A chill ran down his spine as words crawled into his ears.

"Ice... Ice... Baby."

A laugh. The dial tone. Dark silence.

Shaking hands removed the headset. With a push, he left behind his desk and a purposeful stride he left his office.

Transcripts in hand his supervisor waved to him. "Tom I need you to run the ad for-"

"Fuck no."

No one got away with pulling a fast one on ol'Tommy, not his ex, not that brute with his ex that fucked up his face - cock sucker, and not some dead douchebag.

Storming out of the radio station he got in his car. Peddle to the metal, he sped home zipping past the fucker that was going 45 in a 50 zone, the ass-hat that didn't use his blinker, and that stupid mini van with the stick figure family sticker.

He lived alone.

But someone was there to greet him.

Hanging from a rope off his apartment balcony was Jeremey Witch, his neck turned too far as his head lulled boneless to the side. If only his face were half as dead. Eyes locked on the DJ his lips kept repeating. "Nun too soon."

Shaking his head the DJ opened the front door and stepped inside.

Home was a safe heaven, a holy sanctuary.

If he could make it to his apartment-

*Squelch*

Something warm, something slimy, something underfoot popped.

Blood coated the lobby floor along with piles of pulsing flesh.

That shit was staining his good work shoes. He shook his foot and blood splattered onto the tile floor drip-drip-drop. "Looks like the staff took some redecoration tips from Satan himself. You can't scare me, this place looked like shit anyway."

He noticed a red light blinking from the unattended front desk. Walking over to the desk he peered down. The button was labeled intercom.

With the push of a button, the show began.

His voice ghosted from the the announcement system. "Radio 666, with all the best hits. Call us with your secrets, we promise not to tell! A promise is the only thing you get to keep when you go down to hell."

Fist clench tight he smashed the intercom box. Bone cracked, fingers broke, skin bled, but the light died.

Clutching his injured hand to his chest, he turned around to see the writing on the wall – black ink dripped down in jagged lines.

"I listen day and night to the whisper of sins. But now I need my own to be heard. I have a lover. Another woman, she makes me happy, so very happy, but she's not Christian. Will the lord forgive my sins?"

Stumbling back from the wall, he stopped as he hit the desk. His hand brushed against a piece of paper. He picked it up. It smelled sweetly of vanilla perfume.

A note, neatly scripted. "Sure toots. Next caller please!"

Information paid the bills, the more people he heard from the more he knew – the more Jeremy paid him.

Down the halls, he ran a darkness sweeping over everything behind him. There was no were left to return too. Into the stairwell, he ran up, up, up while the world sank down taking him with it. Blood smeared on the rusty rails as he pulled himself up and pressed on.

When he'd lost his boyfriend he'd kept going. When he'd gotten the shit kicked out of him he'd kept going. And he'd be damned if he stopped now.

His apartment door was laced in chains.

"Fuck. Let me in!"

The darkness drew nearer.

"Fuck fuckity fuck fuck. Let me in!"

Blackness clung to him like a thousand grasping hands running bony fingers under his clothes hard enough to bruise his skin.

"I'm sorry. Let me in!"

Clank, the chains broke. He fell inside painting.

Staggering to his feet, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. One step, two steps, he made his way to the fridge.

Opening the freezer he shared a smile with the contents.

Her head was in the fridge. Cheeks cut open to show off her grin.

He laughed. She laughed too.

Giggling turned to gurgling as the void swallowed the room flowing over the floor, the walls, the furniture, and their faces.

Froze in time at the moment of death, the dead offer no forgiveness.

...also coconut water tastes amazing.


End file.
